Aching God

by Mike Shel

  “Of a sort, yes,” said Auric, smiling. “Though I think you’ll find these clerks a bit different from those you’ve dealt with at the Citadel bank.”

  “What of our mounts and gear?” Belech asked.

  “We’ll pick them up when we’re ready to head out into the wilderness. Better they stay aboard the Yaryx than worry about boarding them in Serekirk.”

  It was a short walk to the windowless building that flew the national flag and Syraeic banner. Auric opened and walked through the wide oak door without knocking. Inside was a single broad room, nearly empty, save for a large desk at its center. An obese woman with burgundy hair drawn back in a tight braid was hunched over a ledger at the desk, apparently oblivious to their entry. She appeared to be checking figures, pointing her quill at one spot on the page, then another. Auric approached the desk, his companions close behind. He cleared his throat and spoke an introduction. “Sir Auric—”

  “Manteo,” interrupted the woman without looking up from her book, her voice melodious. “We saw you in some very disorderly sheep entrails this morning, Sir Auric. I assume these are your associates? Please present your Letter of Imprimatur, if you would.” The woman looked up from the ledger and held out a hand stained with ink and blood. Set in the middle of her forehead was a round golden tiger eye gem.

  “Divination,” Del whispered somewhere behind Auric.

  Auric reached in his coat and pulled out the thick packet, handing it over to the woman with deference. She pulled at two of the gold cords and the wax seals split: leaves of the document opened, blooming like a flower, pages of thin vellum fluttering out delicately. She put on a pair of spectacles with lenses so dark it seemed unlikely she could see through them. She scanned the sheets one at a time, flipping each page over with care to move on to the next.

  “Passage for yourself and five named companions, allowance for mercenary assistance to the tune of…seven? Marcator’s oath, are you storming the bloody Pantheon?” She flipped to the last page of the document. “Djao temple to an unnamed deity, beneath the White Priory of St. Besh. Hmmm. No one’s been there in a generation or two. Interesting. Any declarations?”

  “Two,” said Auric. He unsheathed his new Djao sword and laid it gingerly on the red-haired clerk’s desk, then turned to Sira, who was carrying the satchel that held the Golden Egg. Having left its wooden box behind, it was the first time any of them had laid eyes on it since leaving Boudun. He retrieved the brass object from the leather bag and set it down on the desk next to the Djao blade. The metal was still icy cold. He felt a strong desire to wash his hands when he was no longer touching the thing.

  “Oh, nice,” cooed the woman, sliding two fingers along the length of the sword. “Can you tell me its history?”

  “It’s a recent gift, bequeathed to me by the Duke of Kelse. Its name is Bane God’s Whim—Szaa’da’shaela. I know nothing more, save that it has been in the duke’s family for five centuries.”

  “Ah, you’ll be wanting some scrutiny, then?” she responded, eyes alight at the prospect of spending more time with the weapon she still caressed. “I’ll see to it the fee is reduced if you’ll request me as primus seer for the task.”

  “Of course, Miss…”

  “Welka, Sir Auric. Hanasi Welka of the Third Tower of the Unveiled Eye. Thank you. I’ll make certain it gets a thorough reading, and we’ll also consult the archives. Montcalme is the ducal house in Kelse, no? Excellent! Excellent. Now, this other item—”

  Del stepped forward as Welka reached for the Egg. “Miss Welka, I would recommend you not touch this. It contains a cursed Djao relic we mean to return, one that has caused a great deal of havoc at the Citadel. Given your initiation into the rites of divination, I think you risk blinding yourself for a month or more by touching the thing. We’re uncertain how well its malice is contained by our brass vessel here. It also has a triune lock—sorcerous, of course.”

  Welka pulled her hand back with disgust and tented her fingers before her. “I see. Thank you, sister, for sparing me that unpleasantness. I’ll send for one of our thick-skinned abjurers to attend it.”

  She re-folded the petals of the Letter of Imprimatur, sealing it again with a stick of red wax lit by a cantrip, rubbing three of her fingers together while whispering the simple incantation. She returned the pass to Auric. “You can reclaim these items tomorrow. They’ll be ready no later than the fifth hour after sunrise. Proceed through the western door, please.”

  Gnaeus frowned, looking about the room. The only door in sight was the one through which they had entered, to the east. Welka had returned to her ledger, interest in the party vanished. “Are you having a joke on us?” said the young swordsman, scowling.

  Auric took him by the arm. “This way, lad.” He led him around Welka’s desk and walked toward the west end of the room. As they approached the far brick wall, the outlines of a door started to appear, details seeming to pop from it like fish breaking the surface of a lake. The remaining illusion that concealed the portal seemed to disappear with a blurry wash of light when Gnaeus touched the door’s handle. Del laughed.

  “Fucking sorcery,” grumbled the blond swordsman.

  In the next room, the six were asked to disrobe, then were poked and prodded by Counting House clerks with little concern for the individual’s pride.

  “What in the Yellow Hells would I be hiding up there?” growled Belech, bent over a table. “The queen’s jewels?”

  “He does have a point, Sir Auric,” said Lumari as a man with narrow-set eyes sifted through her pale blond hair with a comb for the fifth time. “What sort of contraband are they seeking?”

  “I don’t know,” responded Auric, while a bald man with thick spectacles inspected the hair of his armpit. “It changes. Has to do with the management of access to the Barrowlands. Very thorough divinations are conducted every night, from midnight to sunrise. It determines what and whom they’ll allow past Serekirk’s walls. I was on an expedition once when anyone with blond hair had to have it shaved from their bodies. Completely. Sometimes they know why they forbid an item, other times they don’t. You can always ask him what he’s looking for, Lumari.”

  “Sir,” said Lumari, turning to the narrow-eyed man with the comb, “what are you looking for in my hair?”

  “Lice.”

  “Lice?”

  “Yes. A very dire portent indicated we cannot allow anyone beyond the wall infested with so much as a single nit. We do our duty, madam.”

  Lumari grimaced, but questioned no more.

  “The bright side of this indignity,” quipped Gnaeus, “is that we now know how far down Del’s tattoos go.”

  Del laughed. The tattoos covered every inch of her body, from her chin to wrists and ankles.

  “May I ask what those tattoos are for, Del?” asked Sira, who was allowing a short woman to carefully sniff at each of her vials of holy water, one at a time.

  “Well, you know about Belu’s Rose,” said Del, pointing at the bloom with her charming smile. “It’s a blessed talisman written on my flesh, for protection. Most of the rest? Because they please me. Because I chose to have them imprinted on my skin. You must understand what Royal Binding does to a person. It robs you of some measure of your own will.”

  She rubbed the opal in her forehead, her smile fading. Sira asked her forgiveness.

  “No, no. We sorcerers keep much hidden from the uninitiated, and it compounds our isolation. It’s good for me to share this with you. When one is trusted with secrets of such power, the state has an interest in seeing to it that that power can’t easily go rogue, be turned against it. It’s done to every graduate of the Royal College.”

  “We did see you sink a pirate ship almost single-handedly, Del,” said Gnaeus. “With a snap of your fingers.”

  “It cost me a great deal more than that, but yes, that is an excellent illustration. Without
Royal Binding, sorcerers could use the knowledge they’ve gained for whatever selfish desire or whim that flashes into their heads. Chaos. We are therefore bound; some even complain we are shackled. By this.” She tapped the opal in her forehead. “It not only restricts my use of sorcery in ways difficult to explain to laypersons such as yourselves, but it also marks me. No one is in the dark about what I am, or the danger I represent. And many sorcerers react to this by finding ways to assert their personalities, their individuality. As you see.”

  “So how are the pirates breaking Royal Binding?” asked Gnaeus.

  “I don’t know. Aeromancers are a flighty lot, and their conditioning is the least restrictive. The pirates have been subverting aeromantic shackles for years. But pyromancers…gods. I have no idea what they’ve done to shatter those bonds. It has to be some very dark necromancy.”

  “There are no such checks on alchemists,” said Lumari, looking thoughtful. “And you see the problems this causes from time to time. Some have used alchemy for very unsavory pursuits. The Corpse Grinder of Unkirk, you’ve heard of that travesty? And The Tale of Doctor Frexes is more than a theatrical production, you know—it’s based on real events, happened in Marburand about a hundred years ago. Of course, there are your run-of-the-mill incompetents and bumblers as well. No regulation of the profession means that many practitioners give us a bad name.”

  “No regulation of a swordsman,” offered Gnaeus. “He’s free to stick his blade wherever he will.”

  “And some certainly do,” commented Sira, eliciting surprised laughter from all.

  With their examination complete, Auric led his companions out of the Counting House through another magically concealed door.

  “The red-haired diviner said we were authorized to hire mercenaries?” asked Belech.

  “We probably have Countess Ilanda to thank for that,” said Auric. “It’s customary for a Letter of Imprimatur to allow for hiring one or two mercenaries here in Serekirk. Seven is unheard of. It’s often the case that one gets a better sense of manpower needs the closer one gets to the goal. It might not hurt for us to hire a few, provided they can be depended upon. Finding suitable ones is a trickier proposition.”

  “Who are these mercenaries?” queried Lumari, some reticence in her tone.

  Auric shook his head. “There are as many stories as there are stars in the sky. Mostly men-at-arms, ex-soldiers, though I’ve seen alchemists, and even a few itinerant priests. They come here thinking they’ll find their fortunes, or they’re marooned here somehow, or hold an odd belief in a special mission of sorts. Some failed to gain entry to the League and came here instead; some are ex-Syraeics, washed out of the Citadel during their apprenticeships, or cast out for transgressions common enough in those who follow our path—sins born of greed or arrogance. Some can be quite desperate, after a time, just trying to find a way to buy passage back to the world. I’m afraid ship captains charge exorbitant rates to any seeking escape. At any rate, it behooves us to be very cautious about whom we bring along. If we decide to take any.”

  “And where would we find such fine specimens?” asked Lumari, skeptical.

  “I have an idea,” said Auric.

  19

  Pennyman’s Respite

  “All gods, great and small, hear me!” called Gnaeus to the sky, arms outstretched in mock supplication. “Let this be a jest Sir Auric means to play upon us! Let us pass this seedy dive by in favor of an establishment that boasts amenities such as tableware and floors not strewn with straw! All good gods, I ask that thou hearest my prayer unto thee, for shit’s sake!”

  The six of them stood before a run-down brick building, windowless, with a scarred oak door and wooden sign hanging above it. The name was fading from the sign, painted letters canted at an odd angle so they looked as though they were about to tumble over:

  PENNYMAN’S RESPITE.

  As they stood there, a surly-looking woman with a boil on her face the size of a cherry burst out of the door, clad in rough homespun, a naked sword hung at her side with a belt made of rope. She shoved Belech and Sira aside as she headed out into the waning light of late afternoon.

  “Oh, never mind,” sniped Gnaeus. “I see this fine tavern you’ve chosen for us only caters to the most sophisticated of clientele.”

  “It’s true that Pennyman’s is a humble establishment, Gnaeus,” answered Auric. “But that means it’s frequented by mercenaries looking for hire. And it has the added benefit of a screening process provided by the proprietor, whom I’ve known since my first foray into the Barrowlands—this would have been when you were pulling on mama’s teat. The food’s simple, but nourishing; the beds are turned weekly. That must be good enough for you tonight.”

  “May I remind you of the prohibition against lice?” Gnaeus added. “I’ll take bets that the bedlinens are inhabited by entire civilizations of them.”

  Ignoring the young swordsman, Auric pulled the door open, revealing a dimly lit interior. The space was like many taverns: a bar set against the far wall, clatter from an open kitchen door behind it, and several tables and benches arranged in haphazard fashion across the common room. A fire crackled in a stone fireplace near the bar. The place was crowded, nearly all its clientele having the appearance of men-at-arms: they wore soldier’s clothing, with weapons sheathed at their sides or leaning against a wall—spears, polearms, longbows. All eyes turned to the party as they entered, and several sat up straighter, picked scraps of food off clothing and beards: potential employers had arrived.

  Auric asked his companions to wait near the door while he approached a gray-haired, heavy-set woman occupying a large chair between the bar and common room hearth. Her clothes were layered homespun of obvious age, and atop her head was a winter hat that covered her ears and was pulled down just above her closed eyes, though the season for it was months off. Her hands lay across a voluminous bosom, rising and falling with long, slow breaths. A mangy dog, easily mistaken for a pile of rags, slept at her feet.

  “Pennyman,” Auric said by way of greeting.

  “Auric Manteo,” grunted the crone without looking up. “Been three or four years since you’ve been through. Word was you cashed in your chips, retired to a farm in Bannerbraeke. Had trouble creditin’ the tale, actually, you guidin’ a plow.”

  “Well,” he replied, “it wasn’t a farm, and it wasn’t in Bannerbraeke.”

  “Huh.”

  “But I’m here now.”

  “Aye. Sorry to hear about Lenda. Mound liked her.” The pile of rags wagged its tail.

  “Yes,” said Auric, “we all did.”

  “You’ll be wantin’ my private room, beds. How many mercs you fixed for?”

  “Our imprimatur allows for seven.”

  This elicited an open eye that peered up at Auric for the first time, pale blue and sparkling with intelligence. “Seven? You marchin’ off to tame the Korsa tribes?”

  Auric gave her a half-hearted chuckle. “Nothing like that. I probably want no more than three or four, if you have that many worth our coin.”

  Her eye closed again, and she let out a long, noisy fart, which Auric took as commentary on the current crop of available mercenaries. “You and your colleagues set up in the back room. I’ll send in the passable specimens I’ve got here and you can judge for yourself. It would be no surprise to me if you landed on none of ‘em. A big batch of the worthwhile hirelings got themselves eaten up over the past six or eight months—a few expeditions out to Lursq-ai and around the Teeth of the Djao ended in disaster. Since then there’s been barely a trickle. Fact is, you’re the first Syraeics in here for at least eight weeks. Rumor’s goin’ around the League has lost its nerve for the Barrowlands. Focusin’ its resources crawlin’ around dry, dirty Busker tombs instead, cataloguin’ trinkets.”

  “It’s more complicated than that. But thank you. We’ll take the back room. If you could sen
d in meals and drink for six of us.”

  “I can still count,” was the gruff response.

  “Good to see you again, Mound,” said Auric, bending over to scratch the old sheepdog behind his ears. Mound’s tail went to wagging again, but like his master, he didn’t bother to lift his shaggy head.

  Pennyman’s assessment of their prospects wasn’t far off. Auric and his companions quickly dispensed with a progression of braggarts and twitchy applicants sure to prove a mistake if they were to accompany the party on the expedition. Auric eventually settled on a brother and sister pair who bore scars and laconic dispositions that suggested they were no-nonsense fighters. Their names were Gouric and Messine, both clad in well-worn hide armor and armed with broad-tipped spears as well as short swords, the latter for close quarter encounters. They were Citadel wash-outs who had little patience for the esoteric studies of archeology, theology, and languages in which all Syraeic students were immersed.

  “They aren’t flashy, they’ll follow orders, and they’ll stand up in a fight,” said Auric after they left. The group had agreed on the hire.

  “I liked the redhead, the one who came in after the toothless archer,” Gnaeus chimed in.

  “You liked the redhead, alright,” responded Lumari, tapping two glass tubes together. “Real pretty, that one. You’d have been banging into walls and walking off cliffs staring at her bosom the way you did, you great fool.”

  Gnaeus picked a bit of beef out of his teeth with a sliver of wood, unruffled by the alchemist.

  “We haven’t spoken much about the other survivors of the first expedition,” said Del. “Any ideas what might have become of them?”

  “The priest of Belu, Quintus Valec,” offered Sira. “It’s incredibly rare for anyone to leave the priesthood, let alone someone like Valec. Some are defrocked if they commit a terrible sin. For those who don’t wish assignments with the League, one need only say, ‘no more into the Barrowlands’ and that’s the end of it. And many older priests, or those weary of more hazardous duties, retire to less arduous lives of contemplation, or scholarship if they wish. Or even take a parish in some tiny hamlet. But Valec? Author of a cult-sanctioned book of proverbs? Something shook the man’s faith to its very foundations. Frankly, I can’t imagine what that would be.”